


the lament of eustace scrubb

by rolie_polie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Child Neglect, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I have No Excuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Illness, Overdose, Past Child Abuse, Suicide Attempt, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolie_polie/pseuds/rolie_polie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was an old office building on the south side of town. It was abandoned, covered in grafitti, and damaged in many places, but if you were careful about your footing, you could make it to the top floor easily. The boy used to come here with Jean, and even before then. It was a peaceful place, where he didn't feel like he needed to think about anything but the beautiful view of his city. This was where he decided he was going to end it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lament of eustace scrubb

i.  
He pressed his face into the back of the torn couch, it's beige fabric marred with dirt and stains, gently turning a small amber stone in his hands, warming it with his sweaty palms.  
He thought about the couch, about the day his father had asked for his help in dragging it inside from the alley. It was an old piece of junk, abandoned among the rocks with a large sign, stating in big, bold letters: "FREE".  
He was only six at the time. There were probably still a couple bloodstains on the arm of the couch he had carried in, the fabric stripped away to wood and leaving splinters in his soft skin. He hadn't called to his father about the wound. He'd wanted to help. They were poor. His mother was sick, and his grandfather was far away. They couldn't afford the medical bills. His father was constantly under pressure and shaking with anxiety, running his brittle fingers through his hair, chewing on a toothpick to settle his nerves.  
He thought about the amber he carried in his pocket, always. His mother had given it to him as she lay in her bed, wasting away slowly. He'd crawled up and sat beside her, looking at her skeletal body with tears in his eyes. She smiled at him, and stroked his rosy cheek, brushing her thumb across his faded summer freckles.  
" _My sweet boy_ ," She'd breathed. In spite of the sickness, her eyes shone with pride.  
Her wrinkled hand pressed the stone into his little one gently. The corners of her eyes crinkled. She was happy. " _I love you._ " The woman whispered.  
He cried against her chest, curled into her side. Nobody had told him, but somehow he knew. He knew he was losing his mother.  
A few days later, she was pronounced dead.

ii.  
The boy breathed softly against the fabric, closing his blue eyes. He stroked a scar on the back of his hand. He thought about where it came from.  
He was seven, only four months after his mother's funeral. It was eight o'clock, and his father hadn't made supper yet. He'd tip toed to the man's room, clutching his growling belly.  
" _Daddy?_ " He called through the door softly, " _Daddy, I'm hungry. Are you gonna make supper? Daddy?_ "  
No answer came. The boy gently turned the doorknob, peeking inside. His father was slumped in his bed, grumbling to himself.  
" _Daddy, I'm really hungry._ " The boy said, still tip toeing. As if he were walking on a landmine, speaking to his father, who had become an empty, hollow man.  
He spotted the needle between his father's fingers, and furrowed his eyebrows. Weren't those meant for vaccinations? His father wasn't a doctor. Why did he have that? He was too hungry to truly care, and he looked up at his father.  
" _I'm hungry._ " He repeated.  
The man's mumbling got louder, but he still couldn't hear him, so he tried again.  
" _I'm really hungry._ "  
The mumbling turned to a shout surprisingly quick, and suddenly a shocking pain shot through the boy's hand as the needle was swiped at him.  
" _SHUT UP!_ " His father had screamed.  
The child fell to the floor with the force of the blow, staring in a daze at his father for only a brief moment. Then he started to cry, clutching his bloody hand.  
" _Why did you do that daddy?_ " He sobbed.  
The man stared down at him, eyes red rimmed and hands trembling. His expression was dark and angry. But as his son wept, he seemed to come back to himself, and soon the boy was enveloped in a warm pair of arms, apologies being mumbled into his dirty hair. Less than an hour later, the pair were sat in a McDonald's, the little boy eating his chicken nugget happy meal with his good hand, while his father held the other, stroking the bandaid on his injury now and then. When his boy pulled away to hold his drink in both hands, taking a huge gulp, the father moved instead to brush his fingers over the tender skin underneath the boy's tired, red eyes. The guilt gnawed at him late into the night, after bath time passed, and after his high wore off, and after he tucked his son next to him far past his bed time at almost midnight, rubbing his tiny back when he curled up to his father to sleep.

iii.  
He was eight when his father overdosed on Heroin. A long, hard day at school had just come to a close, packed full of being shoved into lockers and called names, and the boy was exhausted. He just wanted to curl up in his father's bed and go to sleep. But instead, he found the frail man in the living room, splayed across the couch, unmoving. At first, he thought he was just asleep. But when he got closer, he noticed the blue lips and nails; that he wasn't breathing. The boy's eyes widened, and he shook his father.  
" _Dad, wake up_ ," he said, nervously, voice shaking.  
Nothing happened.  
" _Wake up dad! Please!_ "  
Silence.  
He called the police, lips trembling and tears staining his face as he cried that his father wasn't moving. That he wasn't breathing.  
An ambulance came within ten minutes, bringing his father to the emergency room, along with the little boy.  
It was three hours later that he was pronounced dead.  
He was scared, and alone, and the boy spent that night in a foster home, unable to stop crying until the headache and the stuffy nose were finally too much. Eventually, he fell asleep.  
The following day, his grandfather picked him up. They hadn't seen each other since his mother's funeral. They began living together that day.

iv.  
Clutching at his sweater, the boy began to feel tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. He tucked his bare legs underneath him and hugged himself. He remembered where the big, black sweatshirt came from.  
He was fifteen when he fell in love for the first time. It was with a strong boy in the grade above him. His name was Jean. He had a thick french accent and nobody could ever quite agree on the pronunciation of his name, no matter how much he reiterated it.  
He was the first to challenge the boy's depression, kissing his eyelids and the scar on his hand, convincing him to dance for the first time in years. He brought the soft-spoken teenager to a duck pond, and they crouched down to watch the mothers lead their young ducklings about the water. They visited his parents' graves together, and when the boy's knees quaked and he wanted to melt to the ground and cry, Jean held him up, kissed his hair and let him weep. It was incredibly difficult to acknowledge that he had any feelings for Jean. Letting him in was hard; but all Jean did when the boy doubted himself was run his fingers through his hair and allow him to vent his heart out.  
The night the boy hurt himself for the first time, slicing his arm in a fit of self-hatred, he called Jean. He was guided through the process of cleaning it and bandaging it, and the two stayed on the phone together until they both fell asleep.  
He didn't cut himself after that for a very long time.  
Jean gave him the big black sweater one drunken night, after wandering around the cold, rainy neighbourbood at three in the morning for over an hour. The boy wore nothing but shorts and a long t-shirt, and Jean decided in his intoxicated state to squeeze his sweater over the boy's head, then lift him into the air and spin him around.  
They kissed in the rain like that, then giggled maniacally because it was just like a movie, and they agreed that they were the best drunk actors ever.  
Jean told him to keep the sweater after that, and so he did.  
Two months later, he lost Jean. They found out that the older teen was moving away, and he felt his heart shatter yet again.  
By the time six months passed, their relationship ended. The distance was too much for them.

v.  
A sob split the stale air. The memories were too hard for the boy, sixteen now, still raw and aching from his first breakup. His grandfather wasn't home, and rarely ever was, as he'd had to take up work again in order to support the two. His pension just wasn't enough. The boy had always felt guilty for burdening his grandfather like this.  
That's all he'd always been, really. A burden. He was a burden to his sick mother, then to his drug addicted father. He was a burden to his old, tired grandfather, to the children at school, likely even to Jean. He was nothing but a burden. That's all he thought of himself.  
So today, as these flashes of his life filled his mind, he decided that it was time to stop being a burden.  
He would not stay and hurt his grandfather any longer, and he would not risk ever hurting another person. He would not weigh anyone else down. His time was up.  
The boy dragged himself away from the couch, clutching his amber tightly. He glanced at the clock. It read 6:27 PM. He took a long, heavy breath as he dressed himself properly in a pair of jeans, tucking on his shoes and tying the laces painfully slow. Finally, he stood up, putting his amber stone in his pocket.  
The boy didn't bother keeping his key after locking the house. He wasn't coming back anyway, so he simply tossed it in a flower pot, and sniffed. He read back a mental list to himself.  
He'd left a note for his grandfather, and what little money he had.  
He'd cleaned his room and made sure everything was in order.  
He'd taken his amber and his black sweater.  
He had his pills and a blade, and a bottle of water, all in a small bag.  
He'd locked the door and tossed the key.  
He was ready now.

vi.  
There was an old office building on the south side of town. It was abandoned, covered in grafitti, and damaged in many places, but if you were careful about your footing, you could make it to the top floor easily. The boy used to come here with Jean, and even before then. It was a peaceful place, where he didn't feel like he needed to think about anything but the beautiful view of his city.  
This was where he decided he was going to end it all. He didn't want his grandfather to come home and find him, as he had his own father. He felt better about dying here, in a place that had always brought him peace.  
The boy sat at one of the smashed windows on the top floor, looking out at the sun as it began it's descent in the sky. He closed his eyes against the breeze and sighed softly.  
As he read the label of his pill bottle, he wondered if his death would go public. If he would make the newspapers. How many people would go to his funeral.  
He knew most people like him, who knew little love in their lives, often wished nobody would come to their funeral, or know of their death. But he couldn't help hoping, just a bit, that many people would attend his funeral. He hoped someone, anyone, would miss him. The thought of his death being ignored was unbearable.  
The boy was beginning to wonder, after subconsciously reading the label a third time, if maybe he hadn't come here to die. Maybe some part of him had come here to wait. But what was he waiting for?  
A sign? His parents? Jean?  
Maybe he just wanted to see the sunset one last time before he died.  
He didn't know. All he knew was that he hurt. And as the sun went down and an hour passed, many tears trekked their way down his cheeks. Finally, when stars began to light the sky, the boy stopped waiting.  
He didn't want a sign, or his parents, or Jean. He wanted to die.  
So he unscrewed the cap on his pills, opened his water bottle, and began to swallow them one by one.  
He'd only made it through five before he was interrupted. A rough, smoke-damaged voice broke through his foggy thoughts, sounding curious.  
"Hey, you okay? What are you doing?"  
The boy turned around and looked at the interruption, frustrated that his peaceful death had been ruined.  
It was a teenager, significantly taller than him. He was tan and strong and had hauntingly bright green eyes. The boy looked at him, blinked wet eyelashes and felt another tear unwillingly slip out. The stranger tried again.  
"Are you okay? You're crying."  
"I know." He whispered hoarsely. He made no move to wipe the tears away.  
"Why are you taking those pills?"  
Bitterness locked in the boy's throat. More tears streamed. "Guess." He stammered, clenching his fists.  
"What's wrong?" The stranger asked, "Are you trying to... kill yourself?" When no response came, he assumed he was right, and continued, "Why would you do that? You're so young..."  
"I don't want to talk about it." The boy whispered, looking away, "Please leave me alone."  
"Well I can't just leave you here to kill yourself now."  
"Yes you can!" He shouted, almost frantically, his hands shaking. He knew that if he didn't do this now, he'd never have the guts to try it again, "Please just go away!"  
"I- I'm sorry, I... I really don't want you to die, so I have to stay."  
Desperation clawed at the boy's chest, and he sobbed, clutching his pills tighter.  
"I'll do it anyway! I'll do it right in front of you! I don't care if you see me die!"  
He was scared. He was scared to die. This stranger was going to ruin everything.  
"Okay... Okay, please calm down. Why don't you tell me your name? I'm Eren. What's your name?"  
The boy looked at him, almost in confusion, and he sniffled. "...A-Armin." He whined his name softly in reply. He knew he sounded childish and small. But he didn't care.  
"Armin. That's a lovely name," Eren smiled, walking closer to the boy slowly. When he flinched, Eren sat down, leveling the ground between them. "What's wrong, Armin?"  
"Why do you care?" He cried, hugging his knees to his chest, and the pill bottle even closer.  
"I dunno," Eren shrugged, "You're crying your eyes out and you look too young to be dying. I want to help."  
"I don't want help." Armin whispered, almost sounding like he was questioning his own statement.  
"Well, will you tell me what's wrong anyway?"  
The boy looked at Eren, nervous and unsure. But the other was smiling so softly, a scared twitch to it. He gave in, scooching just a bit closer to the stranger.  
"I'm a burden," he whispered, afraid his voice would break if he spoke too loudly, "And my mum and dad are gone, and Jean is gone and my grandpa has to work still and it's all my fault."  
"Gone?"  
"Mum and dad are dead." Armin clarified, flinching at his own words.  
"Oh... I'm sorry."  
He knew the words were not empty, but he was so tired of hearing them he didn't acknowledge the apology. He just looked down and hiccuped. He felt himself crumple, burying his face in his knees and crying brokenly. So close. He'd been so close. But now, the boy didn't know what to do. Was he brave enough to kill himself still?  
"Armin?" Eren said softly, "Do you really want to die? Or do you just want to stop hurting?"  
That confused Armin, and he curled up tighter, struggling to breathe, "I don't know!"  
"What can I do to help the pain go away?" He asked, slowly moving closer to the boy, cautiously. He was a ticking time bomb, so lost in his depression that Eren didn't quite know what to do.  
No answer came other than sad cries and hiccups, and Eren watched as Armin lifted his arms and rubbed his eyes with his fists, sobbing. He looked like a young boy who'd just injured himself. It was such an awful sight, Eren could feel tears in his own eyes now. He finally risked reaching out to the boy, wrapping his arms around him without any thought to what the consequences might be.  
The only response he got was a soft gasp among the tears. He rubbed Armin's quivering shoulders, slowly pulling him into a closer embrace. He rocked him gently back and forth, and breathed in deeply.  
"Please don't kill yourself," he whispered.  
"Stop," the boy begged, digging his fingers into Eren's shoulders, "Please stop."  
He was losing his nerve. Slowly, as he was held tightly, death was beginning to look less appealing. But he wanted to die, didn't he? That's all he'd wanted for years now. To disappear.  
"I can't, I'm sorry." The brunet responded, "I really can't."  
The night was halfway gone by the time Eren released him from the embrace. He had cried himself dry, and the pills he'd taken had made him feel dopey and nauseous.  
"I don't feel good." He whispered, still clutching Eren's sleeve.  
"I know."

vii.  
They sat together almost the whole night, and the boy told Eren his story. He felt it was only fair, after the companion had sat there and let him cry for hours.  
He told him about his mother, and the amber stone he held.  
He told him about his father, and the scar that he'd put on his hand.  
He told him about Jean, about how he'd broken Armin out of his cycle of depression, only to be ripped away from him too soon.  
He told him about his grandfather, and how he burdened the man with school fees and an extra mouth to feed.  
Eren listened in silence, not pressing him forward when he had to take a moment to breathe or to cry. And when it was over, he took his hand and squeezed.  
"Your grandpa is probably worried about you, Armin. Let me take you home. Please?"  
Sniffling, the boy shrugged. He didn't quite know what to do. He wasn't sure he could go through with death now, but the thought of going home scared him. He didn't want to know what his grandfather thought of him now.  
Eren tried again, holding his hand tighter and pulling him up off the ground. His shaking legs caused Armin to have to lean on the strange boy for support, whining softly under his breath.  
He supposed he had no choice now. He let the boy lead him out of the building and down the dark street, leaving his blades and pills behind.

**Author's Note:**

> i regret nothing


End file.
